The whispering amongst the crowd turned into white noise, creating an anticipatory buzz as the festivities were about to ramp up. The Kramath Arena was renowned for its dazzling displays of strength and fights amongst some of the strongest in the entire realm. Many fighters sat in anticipation of their chance to show their stuff in front of the crowds of civilians who indulged in the violence. However, amongst the many eyes of the commonfolk lie those who hold true power. The Monetarists, the true rulers of Kramath, nay, the whole of the plainslands themselves. The king rules in title alone, yet the Monetarists are the ones who truly pull the strings. Many a fighter seeks renown to become sponsored by them, to become known as a champion, and to seek riches and renown that only those with deep pockets can provide. Although for some, they seek out the arena for other reasons.
The pale woman stares into the mirror, checking her face for any blemishes or unsightly marks. Standing firmly in the small, bare cobblestone quarters for preparing fighters. It amounted to little more than a closet, but for the bloodthirsty, it sufficed. She ran her hands through her hair, straightening it slightly to be more presentable. Her hair was a deep mauve color that instantly drew attention when she walked by. Her aura alone, however, would draw the gaze of anybody who crossed her path. She adjusted her glove before she reached out, and with a flash of light, her weapon manifested in her hand. A large, powerful warhammer that looked uncharacteristically ornate for a bludgeoning instrument. She glanced a final time in the mirror before smiling. What was coming next was about to be fun.
The announcer's voice boomed over the pit, rallying the audience and setting the scene. In many ways, the arena fights are not unlike a play. The fighters assume the role of the actors, and their battle is an unfolding tale. Little do most of the audience know that the real story is only witnessed by a select few. Each fight is orchestrated for a political ploy. Fighters are paid to throw in the towel, some by their competitors and some by their own employers. Winning and losing fights means winning and losing money. Gifting coin to the other Monetarists covertly allows them to forge alliances, create intrigue, and spark discussion. Some of the fighters are aware of this, happy to just have more coin to spend at the tavern.
She is not this way; the truth of the matter is she is here for a different reason entirely. She doesn’t just want to fight; no, to fight is easy and second nature. She wants to hurt, inflict pain, and turn it into a spectacle. The arena is her stage, just as it is for the Monetarists. Instead, for her, she revels in every grunt, every strike. That being said, the arena has its drawbacks, elements that stifle her creative freedom. “You cannot kill your opponents.” What a trite rule, she thought to herself often. She also often finds herself in the view of the capitalist kingpins, trying to pay her to throw her matches; at this point, it would be the ultimate move of parley, of influence. She refuses every time; this is for her and her alone. She walks out as the announcer calls her name.
“In the east corner, her captivating beauty is not the only thing that turns heads in this arena! This femme fatale has never once lost a fight in her entire time gracing our halls. The stunning brutalists Hydrania Ilmibla!!!”
She did not hear her opponent's name; it didn’t matter to her.
The show was about to begin.
Hours after winning her fight, she smiled, signing autographs for her adoring fans. The smile was quite forced, but still a smile. Today's fight was pointless; he went down so quickly. Typical, she thought to herself, the newbies love to underestimate her. Assume that because of her appearance, she was far weaker than she really was. How she itched for an actual fight.
As the fanfare died down, she took a back way back to her loft. Through the alleyways so as not to be stopped by the umpteenth person desiring a moment of her time. She frankly was annoyed, annoyed that they kept pairing her with weak bastards. She has known for a while now that most of her opponents, at least the ones who aren’t newcomers, are paid to throw the fight. It’s the only way these rich assholes can utilize her. She thought to herself what she’d love to do to them, how they’d look at the end of her boot, begging for mercy. They would throw money at her, the way they solve most of their problems; perhaps they would plead with honeyed words. She let out a sigh, idle fantasies. As she walked along the dusty backpath, she saw two figures in front of her. Strange, very few take these roads, and even those that do try their best to remain hidden. If they hoped to rob her, they were already doing a poor job at an ambush. The two figures approached steadily. As they came into view, she was able to make them out, one she had recognized, barely, and one that she had not. One of them was a human man, well built and muscled, his head shaved to hide the balding. Clad in leather and hide to provide moderate protection while giving him some mobility. This was the same man she had fought earlier today; she could tell by the bruises on his jaw and biceps, a delightful signature from her artifact weapon. The other man was slim, with dark hair and soft eyes that betrayed an inherent weakness. He wore typical robes that the plainsfolk wore during the summer moons.
“Hey, we need to talk.” The gladiator said, his jaw tight and his words gruff. She couldn’t recall his name; truthfully, it didn’t matter to her.
“About?” Hydrania said, her words carrying the same prideful bite that she carried when they met earlier. A devious smirk appeared on her face. She could tell what this was about; many of the enemies she faces in the arena tend to underestimate her, and upon their defeat, have their egos wounded. Which to her is often sweeter than striking them, there is something special in the way light leaves a fool's eyes when they realize they are not nearly as good as they think they are.
“You fucking cheated during that fight; you had to have.” The man spoke through gritted teeth. His anger was bubbling underneath the surface. Hydrania grinned in response, tilting her head, the setting sun highlighting her golden eyes in a way that felt almost predatory. Her posture was unsettlingly relaxed for the encounter.
“Afraid not, hun; you were just out of your depth in that fight,” Hydrania said with the same bite, a hint of humor in her drawl. The man's face flushed red, and his companion reached his hand out, trying to talk his friend into walking away, to no avail.
“Out of my depth? Are you fucking with me?” The man growled before raising his voice, belligerently yelling in the empty alleyway. “I could fucking kill you if I wanted.” He balled his hands into fists, his gauntlets tight with the spikes at their knuckles. His companion backs up nervously as his eyes dart between the two gladiators.
“I’d love to see you try,” Hydrania said, her demeanor turned from taunting to challenging. At that moment, the man lunged forward, his fist rushing towards Hydrania's head as she quickly sidestepped out of the way.
Capitalizing on the dodge, she turns her heel and jumps back to provide some tactical distance. She was thrilled, fervent even. She was chomping at the bit for a real fight. She extended her hand, manifesting her artifact into her hand. The man turned after his missed punch, his eyes filled with rage and bloodlust as he rushed forward once again at Hydrania. Quickly, with precision and finesse that betrayed the weight of her weapon, she blocked his blows. With each extended strike, his gauntlet-clad fists met the solid metal of her weapon. Her confidence was still present in her stance, fueling his fire even more. He sought to overwhelm her with sheer force; she would be unable to retaliate if she was only defending, and eventually her defense would break. Still, her movements were fluid and measured, as if they were effortless. He was much further out of his depth than he realized; she may not be untouchable, but the gap in skill was palpable.
Unable to land any of his many strikes, he felt his confidence waning, and trying to compute her movements caused his relentless assault to slow. Before he could snap out of his head, he felt a crushing pain hit his jaw, followed by the cracking of the force of the metal hammer head striking him. His head jerked to the side as he focused on maintaining balance, and he felt a sharp sting in his stomach. His eyes snapped to his abdomen to see a boot firmly planted between his abs and an extended blade hidden in the bottom of her boot pierce his skin. Losing balance, he falls onto his back as she extends force into her kick to launch him back. As he lay prone on his back, he attempted to scramble to his feet. He digs his gauntlets' spikes into the ground to steady himself before he is met with the same crushing pain as moments earlier, falling back onto the ground with a scream. He looked at his hand, smashed and immovable, the bones in his hand shattered with one strike. He looked up to see the woman smiling above him, unscathed.
“What a weakling - couldn’t even land a single blow.” She checked her nails lazily as she put her boot on his back. The man pleaded and spewed apologies to her. How pathetic, she thought. He was so foolhardy mere moments ago, and now he begged for his life like a worm. Still, the pleading was delightful; it had been quite some time since she had a worm beg for its life. Euphoric power rushes through her for a moment.
“Well, I suppose it's not a total waste. It has been a while since I’ve heard cries like this.” She stretched her arms upwards, popping her neck and shoulders. “It’s too bad I find your voice so grating; you had potential.” As the words left her lips, she swung her hammer down into the back of his skull, and following a loud squelch, the gladiator's cries subsided. Her eyes glanced over to the other man, standing dumbfounded against the stone buildings. “You realize I can’t leave any witnesses, right?” Hydrania said, her voice dry and almost annoyed.
“Wait, I won’t say a word, and besides, that was… mesmerizing, my lady.” The man squeaked out, his eyes a mix of terror and awe. Hydrania responded with a raised eyebrow; the sadism of men was not a new concept for her, yet to find it from someone so meek was still surprising. “Lady Hydrania, I have watched you fight for moons over and watching you now… you were glowing in a way I had never seen…” He trailed off in his speech, his yammering melding into that of someone scared shitless and that of a doting fanboy.
“Get to the point,” Hydrania said bluntly, removing her boot from the deceased man below her.
“I can’t help but think the way you fight when the stakes are raised elevates your performance… What if I told you of a way to spill more blood, to keep the stakes high against adversaries who pose a real threat?” He spoke plainly; Hydrania paused. She nodded for him to continue, although she suspected he was doing whatever he could to save his hide. The man enlightened her; he was an up-and-coming merchant in the city. However, in a city like this, to procure the funds to start your business, you need either to come from nobility or wealth, or gain the favor of one of the monetarists. They control everything; this wasn’t exactly new information for her.
As such, maintaining control means limiting access. For the common folk, there is little way to legally acquire the coin needed. However, in a city whose main export is its fighters, not everything is above board. The man nervously explained that there is an underground ring run by some of the arena's background organizers. It serves several purposes: for the desperate and the wealthy alike to gamble in hopes of increasing their fortunes, and as twisted entertainment. In this arena, every fight is to the death, and the rewards are high for the risk. Hydrania did something she had not done in a very long time; she smiled a genuine smile.
The man, in exchange for his life, brought Hydrania underground, where she would soon become infamous as well. This man was insignificant to her, although he had the makings of a merchant. Trading information was sometimes as valuable as trading coin. Hydrania excelled in her venture not only because of her string of consistent victories but also because she existed in both worlds. The arena topside and the arena below. Her goal is to maintain her fame, not draw major suspicion, while delighting in the depravity of crushing the weak under her boot. She got to revel in the fanfare and admiration of both arenas. As that is what she truly desires, while she revels in the suffering of those she kills, she is also a hedonist. She revels in the attention; she is a star, and everyone else must bask in her.
Still, she was not a creature of habit, and as she grew more infamous, she found it harder to recreate those early fights. Her reputation was preceding her, leading to a cycle of repetition by the foes that grated on her. She sought a challenge. How could she possibly elevate her performances and continue to hone her craft if she was consistently fighting the same scared paupers?
“Excuse me, may I have a word?” A voice jolted her from her thoughts as she turned her head to see a cloaked figure in the doorway. The figure was indiscernible outside of the dark, shadowy cloak and an intricate mask that covered their eyes, which felt sinister. The formalness of the request also felt strange in the underground. She gestured to the individual as they sat down across from her. “I will not waste words. You have impressed my brothers, and I and we seek to employ you in our legion.” The figure spoke as Hydrania raised her hand to stop him.
“I’m not a soldier, pass.” She said bluntly and turned her head back to the wall.
Still, the cloaked figure continued to speak. “We do not seek a soldier; we seek you, Hydrania. Someone who can spread devastation as an art form, to set the stage for our father's revival.” Hydrania turned her head, her brow furrowing in confusion. The figure's expression was undiscernible, yet she felt as if it was smiling at her as it spoke once more. “We seek you for the void legion, as one of our harbingers. This partnership is only to your benefit, as you will be performing your sadism on the very stages of the divines. With our backing, we will see you become the legend you desire to be.”
Hydrania paused, her attention fully stolen. The two talked for what felt like ages, but it was merely a few moments. The promises were everything she had ever dreamed of, a playground of pain and suffering, and the eyes and attention of thousands. She was skeptical; however, everything she had ever reveled in was always decided based on a whim. As the conversations stalled, her questions sated the figure asked her once more if she would join them, to help usher in a world that would be an eternal celebration. She put her hand out, sealing the deal. The figure chuckled and spoke one last time as Hydrania the Harbinger was finally born.
“Let the show begin.”
